


A Glass and a Half

by Lucy_Ferrier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Ancient Rome, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crowley's Sunglasses (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Hell, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22347979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucy_Ferrier/pseuds/Lucy_Ferrier
Summary: The first time Aziraphale saw him wearing glasses was in Rome, and all in all, he was rather put out by them.Or, five times Crowley didn't want to take his glasses off when asked and one time he did
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 315





	A Glass and a Half

…

**1**

…

The first time Aziraphale saw him wearing glasses was in Rome, and all in all, he was rather put out by them.

“Goodness Crowley, why are you wearing those things?” He’d all but pouted. He was rather fond of the demon’s eyes, but Crowley had gone to great pains to keep them hidden within the confines of current fashions with hoods and veils and similar since civilisation had really properly gotten underway.

Trust wasn’t something that came easily to demons. After simultaneously causing the greatest betrayal in Heaven’s history, and suffering it, suspicion was second nature. Learning the terms and conditions of existence as you were burning and bleeding on route to Hell did that to a being.

Vulnerability wasn’t something that came easily to demons either – not that it was a particularly common trait in angels either. Most built their defences with snark, cruelty and hellfire. Excessive use of exaggerated demonic attributes that were used so often they often appeared to become part of a demon’s personality, preventing anyone from getting close enough to see the scars beneath. And while Crowley’s mistrust and defensiveness usually presented itself somewhat differently from the majority of Hell – his tendency towards hissing was decidedly Other compared to, say, Hastur’s tendency towards setting other demons on _fire_ – both points still stood for him too. No one wanted to burn twice.

Therefore, by all rights, Crowley should have become a solitary creature the moment he landed in Hell, the moment he crawled up onto Earth, the moment the humans left Eden, the moment – well, if he’d had any realistically demonic self-preservation _at all_. But the truth was, he really wasn’t that solitary by nature, there just weren’t that many opportunities to make friends in Hell, as was easy to imagine.

The torrent of emotions that had swirled through him after he’d met Aziraphale had confused the hell out of him for the first few centuries of existence. He _liked_ Aziraphale. He liked how he felt around him, how he was treated, and how he thought that, maybe, he could just… be. And that terrified him. So even as he sought the angel out throughout time, Crowley had, at least attempted, to go as long as he could tolerate on his own. He justified seeing Aziraphale as thwarting and curiosity over Heaven’s plans and needing to rant about human things to the only other immortal on earth. Even so, he maintained defences and boundaries like they were second nature – they were – if for no other reason other than he couldn’t stand the thought of Aziraphale _knowing_ he liked and needed to be around him every few decades.

Crowley shrugged in contradiction to his anxiously raised eyebrows and presumably glared into his drink. “You don’t like them? I’d take them off but…” He frantically searched for an excuse, in the end gesturing broadly at the crowds of people in the tavern around them “…ya know.”

Aziraphale frowned at Crowley’s anxiously twitching fingers. He felt the need to point out that they could just miracle the patrons into not noticing, but he was fully aware that Crowley _knew_ this, having done it multiple times before.

“…I can get used to them.” He replied cautiously. “Are they part of a new fashion?”

“Not yet.” The demon smirked, relaxing incrementally when he realised he wasn’t going to be judged for leaving the glasses on. 

“Implying…?”

“It’s called trendsetting. Or it will be. Very demonic, I assure you.” The smirk remained on his face as he took a mouthful of drink.

“Oh, I’m sure. I suppose that means I ought to thwart this… trend?” Aziraphale teased lightly.

Crowley paused, drink still in hand. In a cautious voice, he said, “Perhaps… not this one?” He desperately hoped he wouldn’t be reduced to saying _please_ but well. He’d try if he had too. Not that he really thought it would make a difference. Just because he always gave into Aziraphale’s pleading didn’t mean it went both ways.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes minutely and Crowley coughed awkwardly, finally returning his cup to the table. “It’s more for a, ah, personal benefit.” _Please, please…_

Aziraphale relaxed, although he was still confused about Crowley’s need for the glasses, let alone how anyone else… oh but that’s about blending in, isn’t it? How silly of him to forget. And Crowley had always been so good at blending in.

“Of course, my dear. No need to explain.”

He smiled gently at the demon, and this time Crowley returned it with the tiniest smile of his own.

…

**2**

…

The argument was stupid, and truth be told, Aziraphale couldn’t quite remember what it had started off about beyond something to do with the Arrangement, nor how it had dissolved so quickly into… whatever this was.

Crowley stood stiffly across the room from him, arms folded, glasses sitting high on his nose creating an unreadable mask that portrayed nothing but defensiveness. Aziraphale liked to think he’d gotten rather good at deciphering the demon’s body language over the millennia, and yet, he couldn’t _begin_ to understand what Crowley was thinking presently.

“Like it or not, you _know_ me. How could you ever assume this was me?” the demon gestured wildly out the window at the latest human disaster.

“Because, _like it or not,_ you’re a demon! What else am I supposed to assume?” his answering sneer struck Crowley harshly, the demon imagining something cracking under his ribs on impact.

“Oh, right, yeah, because I have a real history for starting wars, don’t I?” Crowley would have been proud that his voice didn’t so much as wobble, let alone crack, but he was too busy drastically trying to rein himself in before he accidentally broke something. Not that Aziraphale could tell, the demon’s glasses, broad and dark, and long hair falling over his face partially obscured his remaining features doing an almost flawless job at masking his emotions. Furiously, Crowley shoved his glasses impossibly further up his nose. Aziraphale wasn’t aware that he had anything left to snap, but apparently that _really_ did it for him.

“Oh, for goodness sake! Would you _please_ take off those infernal glasses for one minute?”

If it was possible for Crowley to stiffen any further, he did, although he appeared dangerously close to shattering from the tension, defensiveness giving into fragility.

“No.” He swallowed nervously, “No, I’d, ah, rather not, _If that’s alright with you._ ” The last few words twisting into yet another particularly acidic sneer.

All at once the overload of emotion drained out of Aziraphale, along with much of the colour from his face.

“Oh, my dear, I’m sorry.” He twisted his ring anxiously, “Forgive me, I never should have asked.”

“S’alright,” Crowley mumbled, staring down at his feet, shoulders hunched up around his ears, arms crossing his chest like armour.

Aziraphale approached him slowly, watching to make sure he was welcome, before reaching for his hand.

“It’s not though, not really.” He said, tangling their fingers together. If he looked carefully, now that he stood closer, Aziraphale could see the tops of the demon’s eyes from where his glasses had begun to slide down his nose again. Seeing the naked emotion and more than a little hurt there, however, made him feel terribly invasive and knowing that he had put that look there made him feel like a terrible person. Ever so gently, Aziraphale used his free hand to push them back into place, a small and hesitant smile flickering across his face as his hand continued and brushed the demon’s hair behind his ear.

“I’m sorry.” He reiterated, his voice wavering ever so slightly. _For all of it. I never should have assumed any of it_ he thought.

Crowley swallowed and resisted the urge to look away. “Yeah. Me too.” He said, cringing at his stilted voice. Aziraphale squeezed his hand gently before letting go.

“I should go…” the angel said, biting his lip. “Things to do. Miracles to work and all that.” He vainly hoped that maybe Crowley would ask for him to stay, but barely a glance at the other being’s still defensive posture squashed that idea before it had even finished forming. No, better to retreat and let them both lick their wounds in peace. They’d pick up again some other time. They always did.

Crowley nodded slightly, but otherwise didn’t move or say anything as Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged. He walked towards the door, sent one last furtive glance back at Crowley and vanished out onto the street. As the door closed behind him, Crowley stiffly walked into the next room and collapsed onto his bed, pulling his glasses off as he went. He rubbed frantically at his eyes as he curled up in a foetal position, desperately wiping away angry and distressed tears before they fell. Between their fight, the nonsense the humans had cooked up outside, and yet _another_ commendation for something he hadn’t had anything to do with, it was all just a bit much. A mindless miracle put himself into his pyjamas, and he wholeheartedly agreed with himself that a decade long nap was a very, _very_ good idea.

…

**3**

…

There were few places that Crowley really truly hated, but if he had written out a list, Hell would quite obviously have been at the top. But there really was nothing he could do to get out of the appointment, especially as he’d already been avoiding it for upwards of fifty years.

Presenting his work in person was not something that had to be done all that often – Hell loved their paperwork almost as much as Heaven, and that, luckily for Crowley, included memos – but one too many demons had been caught falsifying their achievements, and for some reason, the Dark Council thought a once a millennia check-up would prevent this. How no one had caught onto Crowley’s particular brand of bullshit and almost complete lack of work ethic was a complete mystery to him, and a source of much amusement, but seeing as he was now the only demonic agent on earth with any regularity, the lords and dukes had to assume that _someone_ was causing all of… that.

But for some God blessed reason, Crowley always ended up being audited by Hastur. And that was just a century-long headache waiting to happen.

Hastur sneered at him, he grunted.

Hastur insulted his abilities, he grunted.

Hastur spat at his appearance, he grunted.

Hastur growled at his “achievements”, he grunted.

He snarled at his human-passing clothes, and Crowley grunted, spread out as much as possible on his infernally uncomfortable chair, desperately giving off an air of complete indifference. Apparently, he wasn’t _quite_ selling it.

“Why do you bother wearing those? We all _know_ what you really are.”

Crowley grunted.

“Take them off.” Hastur taunted.

“M’good.”

A flicker of delighted malice crawled across Hastur’s feature at having _finally_ gotten a verbal response, and Crowley winced, mentally kicking himself. _Definitely_ should have just grunted.

“Take them off Craw-ly.” Hastur reiterated in a voice a laced with vinegar and honey. From a few desks over, Ligur looked up from his own inspection with mild interest.

Crowley grunted.

“For _fuck’s sake._ ” Snarled Hastur, as he reached out and snatched the glasses off Crowley’s face. “ _Stop. Hiding.”_ His grin was cruel, his voice dripping with venom, and the worst part was, Hastur knew _exactly_ what he was doing to Crowley.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the skin-warmed metal leave his face. Not even a full second later though, he opened them again, eyes wide and suddenly lidless, sclera acid yellow and pupils so thin they practically disappeared. Black scales erupted on his cheekbones and the backs of his hands, nose just barely starting to flatten, and when his lips drew back in a hiss his fangs stood out clearly from the rest of his teeth, dripping venom. He gave off the aura of a snake coiled to strike, though he would have much preferred to run, adrenaline pumping through him in a wicked fight-or-flight response.

“ _Pisssssss off.”_ He snarled.

“Make me.” Hastur taunted. Oh, but if this wasn’t just a tiny bit _fun_ to finally get a reaction _._ It was an incredibly _rare_ thing to get Crowley riled up enough for him to start behaving like a real demon.

Crowley hissed again, loudly, venom going _drip, drip, drip_ onto the floor, corroding the ground as he circled Hastur. The other demon relented as Ligur stepped in with a hand to Hastur’s shoulder. Riling up Crowley was one thing, Hastur figured, but out of the two of them, however ironically, Crowley was the predator. The only thing stopping him from killing Hastur, in Hastur’s mind, was his rank. In Crowley’s mind, it was his morals, but this far away from both Earth and Aziraphale, he was starting to question them.

Having filled his requirements in Hell, Crowley now turned to leave, not bothering to retrieve his glasses off Hastur. He didn’t need all of Hell to realise the reason he’d snapped was being stripped of them rather than the Duke of Hell himself. Even so, he struggled to get a hold of his breathing without them, so he stopped altogether, feeling not just naked, but almost scalped, hissing aggressively in defence whenever another demon had the misfortune of meeting his eye.

“You do know snakes _eat_ frogs, right?” Crowley heard Ligur mutter to Hastur in the distance behind him.

…

**4**

…

Crowley was beginning to feel almost deliriously comfortable from where he was lying on the sofa in the back room of the bookshop, using Aziraphale’s thigh as a pillow. The angel himself had a book propped open beside him and was elbows deep in explaining his many annotations to Crowley. Having just come back from another check-up with Hell, it felt like just about everything Crowley needed right now.

Aziraphale paused after a rather lengthy explanation that had left Crowley behind some time ago.

“My dear, won’t you take your glasses off whilst we’re inside? It must be dreadfully dark for you.”

Well. Everything he needed except that.

“Nah. I’m good. Um, thanks.” He curled into himself as he cringed.

“My dear…” Aziraphale’s eyes flicked hesitantly over Crowley’s face. “You don’t have to answer. But, could I ask why you still wear them?”

Crowley hesitated before even beginning to formulate an answer, instead choosing to dodge rather well – he thought at least – with another question.

“Why do you think I wear them?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him and shook his head in fond exasperation.

“Well, at first I thought it was just to blend in…”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to shoot Aziraphale an exasperated look.

“it still _is._ ” He replied, rolling his eyes with a smirk.

Aziraphale looked away, Crowley catching a glimpse of the slight distress and confusion painting the angel’s features. “Oh.” Was all he said, brows crumpling, lip curling into the slightest hint of a pout.

Crowley sat up quickly, propping himself up with one arm, and swallowed when he belatedly realised how close that brought them together.

“What?” He asked, casting a searching look over Aziraphale’s face.

“Well… Well.” He took a breath. “Why do you still wear them, with me?” His fingers fiddled anxiously with his ring. “I thought I understood, before, but well. We’re… We’re friends now, aren’t we? And I just, I thought…” He bit his lip as he peered up at Crowley, who tried very hard not to shrink into himself.

“It’s nothing personal angel.” He murmured. “It’s just… me”

“You take them off when you’re drunk!” Aziraphale protested a little bit desperate.

“Yeah, well. Removal of inhibitions and all that.”

“But-” Crowley cut him off before Aziraphale could protest further, the angel starting to sound just a little bit hysterical.

“You _know_ why I wear them.” He said gently, and Aziraphale deflated.

“Yes.” He sighed. “I supposed I do.” His shoulders sagged in defeat. He _did_ know why Crowley wore them, that they were his armour, both figuratively and literally, that they disguised his most demonic aspects. Aziraphale just didn’t get why Crowley felt the need to wear them around _him,_ though he’d never, ever remove them without Crowley’s permission.

 _Shit, shit, shit._ “Hey.” With the hand not propping him upright, Crowley reached up and held his glasses a centimetre or so above his eyes and made sure he was clearly looking directly at Aziraphale. “It’s. Nothing. Personal. Okay?”

Aziraphale drew in a particularly deep breath. “Okay.”

“We good?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. That’s quite alright then”

“You don’t mind?” Crowley asked, suddenly vulnerable.

“Of course not, my dear. But if I did, I couldn’t, nor would I, stop you. You do whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Good.” He dropped his glasses back into place and flopped back into his previous position and tried not to think to hard about the fact that his head was now accidentally more in Aziraphale’s lap than before. Aziraphale, for his part, peered down at him with devastating fondness, one hand coming up to trace patterns on his shoulder, the other retrieving his book from where it had fallen to the side.

“Now, as I was saying before, the author also…”

Crowley went limp against him again and wiggled just a little bit further into his lap, the almost silent _thanks angel_ passing through his lips was rewarded with a fleeting smile.

…

**5**

…

It had been a long, _long_ day.

Warlock was now the ripe old age of three-and-a-quarter, and being three-and-a-quarter meant questions. And absolutely infernal _tonne_ of questions.

And whilst Crowley was generally approving of excessive questioning, curiosity, and the burning need to understand the world, Warlock’s questions had turned ever so slightly personal, which was just awkward at the best of times. And it really wasn’t easy to explain to a small child why you wore glasses all day, every day, even if he _was_ the antichrist, and that no, you weren’t going to take them off, because no matter what you said, the response was always a giggly and hysterical “ _But why?_ ” just for the sake of saying it.

It had long since grown dark when Crowley entered the gardener’s cottage in search of Aziraphale. He wasn’t looking for comfort, he told himself stubbornly. He just wanted to compare notes. And maybe fall asleep on the couch. Or the decidedly unused bed,

“Angel?”

“Back here, my dear.” Came the quick reply. Crowley let out a relieved sigh. The angel got up from the couch, which appeared rather more comfortable than yesterday at Crowley’s approach.

“Oh, but if you don’t look dead on your feet.” Aziraphale clucked, running his hands lightly up Crowley’s arms, and after everything that had happened earlier with Warlock, it was all Crowley could do to resist _melting_ into him. Aziraphale paused on his shoulders, looking into Crowley’s eyes questioningly.

“Shall I take your jacket?” He offered, Crowley immediately nodding and shrugging out of his dress coat and passing it over to Aziraphale who hung it up beside the door.

“Can I take these off?” Aziraphale asked, gesturing to the glasses.

Crowley shook his head roughly and quirked an awkward smile.

“Okay. Please sit down my dear, I’ll make tea?”

Crowley nodded wordlessly again, and flopped haphazardly, in full Nanny getup, onto the couch and proceeded to remove his heels with a relieved hiss.

“Herbal or black?” the angel called from the kitchenette.

“Herbal.”

“Any flavour in particular?” He questioned.

Crowley pondered for a minute before shrugging to himself. “Surprise me.”

Aziraphale quirked a smile and set about heating the water to not quite boiling for the tea before setting it aside to brew for a few minutes.

“How was Warlock?” Aziraphale asked almost knowingly, as he returned to the room, a cup of tea in either hand. Crowley groaned and rubbed at his temples.

“He’s… intense.”

Aziraphale chuckled and took a sip of tea. “Yes, well. Toddlers.” He supplied. Crowley snorted.

“Are you okay though? Really?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah ‘course. Just tired. If he wasn’t the antichrist, I’d even say that Warlock’s a good kid. He’s just, well. A toddler. Which is a little weird if I’m honest.” Crowley set his tea down briefly to stretch, spine popping all the way down, along with at least one shoulder and his left hip. Aziraphale awkwardly tried to look like he wasn’t deliberately looking away. Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Well, that means what we’re doing is working then! That’s a good thing, yes?” Aziraphale asked, looking up from his tea hopefully.

“S’pose.” Muttered Crowley, stifling a yawn. “Would you mind if I crashed here for a bit?”

“Of course not, my dear. Take the bed if you’d like. Though you should probably head back to your own rooms in a bit, or people might talk.” He cast a wary eye over the window. Crowley picked up his tea to hide his smirk before gulping the remainder down all at once and flopping bodily back onto the couch.

“Thanks angel.”

…

**+1**

…

Freedom was a strange feeling.

As much as both Aziraphale and Crowley would have preferred it, 6000 years of anxiety didn’t just disappear overnight. Crowley still circled Aziraphale protectively when they were out in public, scanning the crowds for demonic and angelic faces, he still rarely removed his glasses, and Aziraphale had yet to ask him too. Aziraphale had a tendency towards flinching from physical contact in public most of the time, breath coming out in short bursts as he looked above around them, and he still thought Crowley drove too fast. But they could do things they’d always done, like lunch, or sitting on the bench in St James Park, and now they could do it _all the time,_ a novelty that had yet to wear off. Yesterday Aziraphale had held his hand for a full twenty minutes, palms sweaty, nervously looking up before glancing out of the corner of his eye at Crowley, who’d rather looked like he’d swallowed his tongue. They were getting there. They were doing better.

At this point, Crowley didn’t think he could go fast at all, even if he tried, let alone _too_ fast. He was fairly sure he was going backwards in how far he was willing to push Aziraphale – at least then he knew what to expect. It was bemusing to see Aziraphale take the lead in progressing their relationship, the angel seeking out Crowley’s company on an almost daily basis. If asked he would say he had no idea what you were talking about, as he had said to Crowley on numerous occasions since Armageddon. In all honesty though, Aziraphale wasn’t really sure what to do with himself now. Having closed the bookshop indefinitely, now that he didn’t have to pretend to Heaven that he didn’t have an extensive collection of material objects, he didn’t even have customers to chase off. There was only Crowley, and the dozens of unspoken things between them.

Whilst the pair regularly went out to spend time together, there was at least one distinct habit left over from before; justifying every excuse to see each other, Crowley regularly half-heartedly threatening mischief if Aziraphale refused, to which the angel would roll his eyes fondly, or Aziraphale showing up at Crowley’s flat unprompted with claims he was checking Crowley wasn’t planning trouble.

Having returned to the bookshop after yet another delightful meal – it was admittedly a little late in the day to continue to refer to it as Lunch – meant Crowley twisted at impossible angles on the sofa and Aziraphale sat beside him with the barest hint of a slouch reaching out for his shoulders, still-warm cocoa thanks to someone’s miracle placed beside him.

“You can’t possibly be comfortable like that.” Aziraphale pointed out exasperatedly.

“M'fine. Comfy.” Came the muffled reply, Crowley’s face mashed into at least three of Aziraphale’s tartan throw pillows. He stuffed his feet under the angel’s thigh, Aziraphale letting out a surprised and slightly embarrassing squeak.

“How! Are your feet _this_ cold! It’s August!”

Crowley let his glasses slide minutely down his face, looked Aziraphale directly in the eye, and shoved his feet a little further under the angel’s warmth. Aziraphale glared at him but didn’t otherwise try to remove him. Crowley rubbed at his face where his glasses frame was digging into his cheekbone.

“Why don’t you just-” Aziraphale made an aborted gesture at his glasses as he cut himself off. Crowley’s breath shook as he inhaled deeply, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

“Ask me.” He said, eyes open and staring unblinkingly at Aziraphale, hands locked together so they wouldn’t shake. He was nervous sure. But he wasn’t scared.

Aziraphale swallowed and stared forcefully into his cocoa. “Ask you what, my dear?”

“Ask me if you can take them off.” Crowley indicated awkwardly at his face.

Aziraphale blinked, eyes widened comically. It wasn’t as if he had never seen Crowley’s eyes, even recently. Crowley did occasionally take his glasses off himself, unprompted, although admittedly within the last four or so millennia it had very, _very_ rarely occurred when he wasn’t at least a little bit intoxicated. Even so, it was _always_ on Crowley’s terms. It had only taken him 6000 years, but Aziraphale had finally figured that Crowley would just never reveal his eyes when Aziraphale himself asked. No one liked to feel vulnerable, especially not a demon, and _especially_ not Crowley.

Crowley grinned. “Scared angel?” he dared.

“No.” he huffed, eyes narrowing. “Are _you_?”

Crowley blinked again. “No?” He bit his lip.

“Are you sure?” He checked. Crowley nodded.

“I trust you.” He said, the way most people say _I love you._

“Okay.” Aziraphale swallowed. “Crowley. Dearest. Would you mind terribly if I took your glasses off, please?”

Crowley quirked a smile and allowed Aziraphale to push the offending item up into his hair. He blinked. Aziraphale blinked a few times, his hands now cradling Crowley’s face.

“Boo.” Said Crowley.

“Well, that was anticlimactic.”

Crowley snorted. “I’m sorry, were you expecting fireworks?” he lifted his hand as if he were about to snap his fingers, before Aziraphale swatted it back down with a barely stifled giggle.

“No! Were _you_?”

“Perhaps a few would have been nice. I’m a little disappointed if I’m honest.” He grinned when Aziraphale couldn’t stifle his next giggle.

“You’re ridiculous.” Aziraphale said fondly.

Crowley grinned and tugged on the angel’s hand that was still on his face. Aziraphale gave a strangled yelp when the result of said tug landed him on top of Crowley, the demon wincing when Aziraphale’s knee connected with where theoretically his right kidney would be. Aziraphale glared at him and tried desperately not to look flustered, now chest to chest with the demon, their faces now remarkably close. He didn’t really put a lot of effort into selling it though.

“Alright angel?” Crowley asked a little breathlessly, eyes wide.

“Um. Yes. I think.”

Crowley peered past him for a second and cringed. “Ah, angel. I think your cocoa got knocked over.”

“Fuck.” Aziraphale muttered, dropping his head to Crowley’s shoulder.

“Wha- You swore!” the demon spluttered in shock.

Aziraphale looked up at him. “Yes, well. It does happen on occasion. When the situation calls for it”

Crowley had yet to pick up his jaw. “But you never swear!”

“Really my dear, it’s not really-”

“It’s cocoa!”

Aziraphale winced. “It’s spilt on my book isn’t it?”

Crowley looked past him again and grimaced. “Ah. Yeah. Oops.”

“ _Fuck.”_ Aziraphale said emphatically for the second time. Crowley shook his head in wonder.

“ _fuckIreallyfuckingloveyou.”_ Crowley said ridiculously fast, going bright red up to the roots of his hair as he unwittingly maintained eye contact with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale blinked. “Sorry, what was that dear?”

“…Nothin’” Crowley trying to duck his head, and failing that, burying his face in a pillow, knowing full well that Aziraphale had heard him.

Aziraphale tried vainly to stifle a giddy smile in the crook of Crowley’s neck. It was okay. He knew what Crowley meant. Aziraphale was good at being patient.

“ _I love you too.”_ He whispered into Crowley’s collar bone.

Maybe not so patient after all. Crowley wrapped himself tightly around his angel and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> well this was just way harder to write, specifically to finish than it really had any right to. but the idea of a/c and boundaries just wouldn't leave me alone and here we are *shrugs* so... enjoy!
> 
> remember comments and kudos make the world go round :)


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